Birds and Wolves
by Carapatzin
Summary: A budding collection of drabbles about our favorite bitter ex-slave and a rogue who loves him exactly for who he is.
1. Just a Name

_**Just Your Name: **__inspired by the reading lessons alluded to in the game, and by headcanon. This takes place during Act III._

_[I do not own these characters or Dragon Age. These belong to Bioware.]_

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><p>It had taken River a little while to get used to Fenris's sleeping habits.<p>

To be fair, it had taken River quite a time just to get used to Fenris _being _there at night. If questioned, he always maintained the appearance that he lived in that cobweb-filled, sprawling mansion in Hightown, but he never _slept _there – she figured he didn't want to be alone at night anymore, just as she didn't. To her, the memories were too fresh when she lay in bed alone, stared up at the ceiling, and thought about them: Carver lying bloody and dead on that nameless stretch of dirt outside Lothering, the templars hauling Bethany away, her mum's head patched onto a pale, wobbling corpse. But with Fenris here, she could relax, think about other things.

Those other things had namely been, of course, his sleeping habits. Fenris slept like a dead man, making next to no sounds and barely moving at all, but the slightest noise woke him immediately. More than once River had sighed in her sleep and rolled over, only to see Fenris blink and glance at her with a sleepy glare.

He wasn't actually _angry, _she knew – he always breathed out a rough breath, pressed a kiss to her hair, and settled back into the pillows once more. For all his fiery temper, he never could stay angry with her. But even though she didn't want to keep rousing him from his sleep, trying to convince her subconscious self barely to move had been easier said than done.

At least it wasn't just _her; _he'd told her once, a week or so ago, that Sandal had mumbled "enchantment" in his sleep from down the hall. He said Bodahn snored like an angry bear, and sometimes he could hear Orana whimpering in her sleep, probably plagued by memories. When she'd noticed the dark circles under his eyes, one morning after a particularly noisy night, she'd ruffled his silky white hair and tried to think of ways she could muffle her live-in guests.

Always in the back of her mind was the fear that these night noises would eventually drive him nuts, and that one night he'd drop her off at her estate and slink off into the night, heading back to his lonely mansion to sleep in the quiet.

Then there were the other things. Fenris never slept without a tunic and pants, and even through the fabric, she could feel the tension in his strong, wiry muscles whenever she ran her hands over his chest and stomach. And his lyrium markings tended to glow softly in the dark, thrumming with clear, ice-blue light; the first few nights had been interesting, waking up to a blue glow, but she'd eventually decided to think of them as a night-light of sorts. A comforting thing.

Now, she woke up bleary-eyed in the middle of the night as she often did; she leaned her head against his chest and snuggled closer to his side, then remembered she'd been trying not to wake him up and cursed herself silently.

No, wait…he wasn't asleep.

River rubbed her eyes with her fists and forced them open, realizing he had a book open on his lap and was quietly sounding out words, one finger tracing along the page. He had one arm around her, the other hand supporting the book upright. She found it mildly amusing that his lyrium markings gave him enough light to read by.

He paused at one word, and she could almost _feel _him frowning at it.

"Dis-satis-faction," she pronounced.

"Ah," he said, "I woke you. I apologize."

"No, no… It's okay," she said, scooting upwards a little so the back of her neck rested just in the crook of his arm and shoulder. The cold night air brushed her skin; she grabbed the disrupted blankets and pulled them up again. "What're you reading?"

"Something the dwarf slipped into your bookshelf," he said, resting his cheek against the top of her head. "I thought it'd be mildly interesting. _Hard in Hightown_. Quite the title."

"Oh, hell," she groaned. "Varric needs a swift kick in the pants for that book."

"He certainly has some…_interesting _ideas," Fenris said. "But I had trouble sleeping, and it's something to do."

"I'll give you something to do," River mumbled, rolling onto her belly and kissing his chest.

He chuckled. "You need rest, River." With that, he shut the book and tossed it onto the nightstand. "I practice more another time. Go to sleep."

"Spoilsport," she said, curling up on her side with her head on his chest; she could feel his hand absentmindedly tracing patterns on her back as she closed her eyes and heaved a heavy sigh, drifting off to sleep.

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><p>She must have woken up later than he had, because when she raised her arms over her head and stretched the kinks out of her back, she realized she hadn't accidentally smacked him in the face.<p>

The smells of eggs and buttered bread wafted into her room from the kitchen. Orana must have been cooking breakfast. River yawned and forced herself out of bed, wondering if Fenris had gone back to his mansion by now. At some point she'd have to report to Knight-Commander Meredith to find out what the woman wanted from her – the letter hadn't been informative – but for now, she'd be content to enjoy breakfast.

She pulled on a fur robe and padded into the main hall. Once there, she found Bodahn standing at her desk and organizing her letters for her; Sandal sat on a high-backed chair, fiddling with an amulet of some sort, and Fenris sat on the adjacent couch, one leg slung over the arm, a quill in one hand and a parchment propped on his thigh. Isabela sat cross-legged at the other end of the couch with a thin blanket draped over her lap, reading _Hard in Hightown_ and sniggering to herself.

"Who let you in?" River teased Isabela.

"No one had to, sweet thing," Isabela said with a grin, not looking up from the book. "This is _juicy. _Have you read it yet? You should."

"I think I'll save it for another time," River said. Fenris looked up at her, gave her a soft half-smile, and returned to his parchment.

"Maybe I'll borrow it at some point. Give it to a couple friends of mine. They're the type to enjoy this sort of story… Well, Zev is, at least. I think Shesi just indulges him." She chuckled to herself. "Well, I think I'll return to the Hanged Man." She stood. "I'm starting to miss the smells of vomit and piss. I'll be there if you need me." She walked out of the estate, her curvy hips swaying as she did.

"River," Fenris said.

She raked her inky black hair away from her forehead. "Hmm?"

"How do you write an 'i'?"

River chuckled. It hadn't been much of a shock to her when Fenris had mentioned he couldn't write either; after all, that skill seemed to come hand in hand with reading. He'd been an eager student, once she'd broken past his shame over not being able to do things most Free Marchers could do, broken past the quick bursts of self-directed anger when he couldn't figure out a word. And she enjoyed teaching him just as much, enjoyed the moments when he'd sit at the table with a book and she'd lean over his shoulder to help him and he'd tilt his head back to kiss her jaw.

"Stick with a dot on top," she told him.

"Mmm. Thank you."

She smiled, leaving him to his own devices.

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><p>River liked to tidy up around the estate. It took her mind off things, helped her focus on tasks other than literally keeping Kirkwall from exploding in on itself. She liked to dust the furniture, stack things in neat piles, dab a little aromatic oil around the rooms to freshen them up. Lavender oil had been her favorite as of late. A relaxing scent, that. Bodahn, when he was around, would help her with the cleaning; Sandal tried too, although he usually found some bauble that ended up distracting him.<p>

This time, she worked alone, tidying up the table in the main hall. _Hard in Hightown _lay sprawled open on the table's glossy wooden surface; with a soft smile she picked it up and shut it, smoothing her hand over the soft leather cover. Something caught her eye beneath it: a piece of parchment folding in on itself, with only two words she could see on it.

Curious, she spread out the parchment, her eyes widening. The writing was scratchy, nothing like the fluid, delicate writing Leandra had trained River to have, but she recognized the two words on the parchment:

_River Hawke_.

Her name. Just her name.

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><p>She found Fenris back at his old mansion, finishing a bottle of merlot. Drinking straight out of the bottle had always been a habit of his she'd never quite convinced him to drop, but really, it didn't matter much. He had his armor on, his shoulders and chin held proudly as he set the bottle down on the table and looked up, watching her approach him.<p>

"Something you need?" he asked, his vivid green eyes soft. "Did you need my assistance again? You know I'm happy to give it."

"Not exactly." She crawled into his lap on the chair and straddled his hips.

Fenris chuckled, his eyes darkening as he did. "Perhaps you need my assistance in something else," he said, his lithe fingers plucking at a strap on her armor.

"Your writing is improving," she said, her eyes locked on his.

"Oh?" Recognition seemed to dawn in his eyes, and he fell silent. She wondered what thoughts crossed through that complex mind of his. Eventually he spoke again, his demeanor calm. "I thought I'd practice with your name first. I apologize if my writing is nearly illegible. Perhaps someday it won't look like chicken-scratch."

"Fenris," she chided, leaning her forehead against his. "It's _perfect."_

He just smiled, and tilted his head to press his mouth to hers.

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><p><em>Hope you enjoyed! (Note: Shesi is my female Dalish Grey Warden.)<em>


	2. Luster

_**Luster: **Fenris's lyrium markings don't hurt when Hawke touches them, per say; but when she does happen to touch him, he does get accidentally and awkwardly turned on, which we know Fenris is not the best at handling. Act I._

Short, random little blurb; it sounded fun in my head. :)

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><p>The first instance was the moment Hawke met Fenris, right after he ripped the still-beating heart out of the man standing before Hawke and popped the organ in his hand with a messy spray of blood and the immediate noxious stench of fresh decay. She'd almost expected him to rip <em>hers <em>out as well, and she'd been tremendously surprised when all he'd done was calmly converse with her about the reason she'd _actually _been on that pointless venture into the abandoned house.

His markings had fascinated her. Stark white against the russet of his skin, a perfect match to the snowy silkiness of his hair. She found herself tracing them with her eyes, the bars along his throat, the twining patterns along his muscular arms, and only stopped herself when his armor prevented her from seeing more.

A damn shame, that.

She'd decided to help him clear his former master out of the estate in Hightown, because slavers deserved something much more violent than just a simple boot up the arse. The way there had been fraught with chilled winds and one obnoxious clump of bandits jumping down on them from the rooftops; how they managed to do so without breaking limbs was beyond her. She'd made sure to assist with the necessary limb-breaking immediately after.

Some part of her hadn't expected Fenris to actually be waiting for her and her companions outside the mansion, but there he was, standing against the wall with the chaotic energy of a man barely in control of himself, his vivid green eyes full of unease and anger.

The actual _instance _had happened inside the mansion, as Hawke stepped over a broken, rotting wooden bench and stumbled on a disembodied chair leg when her foot landed; she'd tripped, cursing herself for her lack of grace, and accidentally brushed her hand against Fenris's arm as she righted herself.

The white lyrium traced all over his arm had flared to life then, emitting a pulse of stark, ice-blue light, and Fenris had hissed, pulling away from her. She'd jerked her arm to her own side in response, her brows pulling together.

It had seemed touching him either caused him pain or made him angrier than a Templar at a mage-rights convention hosted by Anders with platters full of delicious, untouchable cookies on the tables and cats everywhere.

Hmm.

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><p>The second instance: a routine sweep of the Wounded Coast to clear out some raiders who'd preyed on too many people for Aveline to ignore. The raider-slaying had been just as routine as usual; Hawke hadn't been a rogue in the King of Ferelden's own army at Ostagar for nothing. She'd cut into the raiders from behind with the speed of a tempest as Aveline and Fenris took most of the aggression and Anders kept everyone nice and healed from the back. Fenris, however, had taken a gouge to the right bicep; nothing too deep, but Hawke could tell it irritated him, and Anders for some unfathomable reason had decided to let him suffer for a moment.<p>

"You're hurt," Hawke had said, resting her hand on his arm.

His teeth had audibly grit together as the lyrium in his skin throbbed with light under her fingers, iridescent and tinged with that crisp glacial blue.

"Do not waste energy worrying about it," he'd said just as crisply, his muscles tense beneath her hand.

"Don't give me that," she'd retorted. "Are you all right? Seriously."

He'd looked at her like she'd sprouted fuzzy, carnation-pink horns out of her head, and it had taken a moment for him to actually respond.

"I am all right," he'd said, that deep, rough voice of his echoing through her ears. "It will heal. I've had worse than this."

"All the same, I'll go knock some sense into Anders," she'd said. "He's being a flaming turd." When she lifted her hand off his arm and turned to find the healer, she'd heard Fenris's sharp exhalation from behind her.

Well, then.

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><p>The third instance: a game of Wicked Grace in the Hanged Man after the sun slipped below the horizon. Isabela was winning, naturally, because she cheated, and the pirate already had a looming stack of coins in front of her on the table.<p>

"Why do you always win at cards?" Merrill had complained, dropping her last coin, one tinged with dirt and dull from age, on the table.

"Trade secret," Isabela had said with a wicked grin.

"She cheats," Anders had said at almost the same time.

Isabela had donned an air of innocence and pressed a hand to her heart with a gasp, an act that probably no one but Merrill believed.

"Now, now, Blondie, maybe you're just terrible at this," Varric had said with a chuckle, and even Hawke had been surprised when the dwarf actually _beat _Isabela the following round and had collected a significant pile of coins.

Fenris hadn't talked much during the games – he never did – but Hawke could tell he enjoyed the distraction all the same. Unlike Isabela, Varric, and Hawke, he had no flagon in front of him; Hawke knew he preferred wines and had no tolerance for the ale that tasted surprisingly like urine and surprisingly _not _like ale that they served here. Hawke didn't mind the taste much, since she'd learned to drink just about anything for the sake of the glorious buzz when she'd been in the King's army, and she knew Isabela's ability to stomach gross tastes and smells was a talent in itself. Bethany had tried a sip of Hawke's ale like a champ, and run to the privy to spit it out immediately after.

Right after Varric's victory was when Hawke had made her mistake.

An innocent mistake; she'd merely dropped a card on the floor, scooted her chair out a tad, and bent at the waist to pick it up. On the way back her hand had accidentally skimmed the inside of Fenris's left knee. He'd breathed in sharply through his nose, lyrium flaring blue on his knee, the soft glow of it barely visible beneath his pants.

"Everything all right, broody?" Varric had asked, looking amused.

"Quite," Fenris had said dryly, his eyes giving nothing away, and that was when Hawke wondered if _anger _or _pain _had really been the right emotions to assign to his reactions.

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><p>Transgression the fourth: this time Hawke had been brave and touched him on purpose. She and Bethany had only been in Kirkwall a year and a few months now, but they'd finally gathered enough coin to venture into the Deep Roads with Varric and his grumpy prick of a brother. Of course, a change of heart and a surge of panic had prompted Hawke to keep Bethany behind on the surface, which her sister hadn't really argued. She'd taken Fenris with her instead, and if he'd been upset at the week-long subterranean journey with her, Varric, and Anders, he hadn't voiced as much.<p>

The caverns had seemed equal parts spooky and equal parts magnificent to Hawke, with their soaring stone walls and exquisite archways and bubbling, spitting rivers of vermilion lava. The groups of various men and dwarves alike had taken to sitting around at camp and trading stories when everyone started to grow tired, and one night Hawke had found herself sitting with Varric, Anders, and Fenris in a corner of the campsite, drinking ale and waiting for her aching, fatigued body to give in and demand sleep.

Anders had retired for the night before the rest of them had, and then Varric had followed soon after, probably to give his luxurious chest hair a thorough combing before he went to bed. Nighttime routines and all. That had left Hawke with Fenris, and she hadn't waited long to strike up a conversation.

"Was your hair originally black?" she'd asked, gesturing to his eyebrows.

"I believe so," he'd said, frowning in concentration. "Truth be told, I don't actually _know…_but it makes sense."

"So at one point, we would have been twins," she'd said, tugging on a strand of her own ebony hair.

"Yes," he'd said, with an amused chuckle; he didn't laugh often, but she liked the sound of it whenever she heard it. "Twins."

"How do you always keep your hair so clean?" she'd asked. "I mean, _seriously_? Mine looks like a tornado went through it after a few hours. What's your secret?" She'd reached a tentative hand towards him. "Can I feel it? It looks soft."

"If you must," he'd said.

She'd twined two fingers through a lock of it then, marveling at its texture against her scarred-up hand. The upturned lyrium prongs on his chin had pulsed faintly then, and his jade green eyes had darkened when he looked at her, but she hadn't seen any anger in that darkness. No – they were dark with a sort of heat that she'd never really seen before.

"Did I bother you?" she'd asked, slowly pulling her hand away.

"Not in the slightest," he'd said.

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><p>And then, of course, the fifth. She'd never forget that one, even years later.<p>

It had taken place a week or so after they'd returned from the Deep Roads. Still heartbroken over having to watch Templars take Bethany away and imprison her in the Circle, Hawke had been much too trusting of a blood mage hiding out in Darktown. She'd justified it as nostalgia for her sister, as a longing for someone to free the mages and let Bethany just _come home, _but the blood mage had pressed his advantage and thrown her against a wall with a forceful burst of magic.

She'd lain there, it seemed, until the conclusion of the battle, when she'd regained consciousness with a pounding head that felt like a split coconut. The first thing she'd heard had been Fenris's voice, rougher than it usually was, asking again and again if she was all right and where had she been hurt and if she would just _open her damn eyes; _she had, then, and she'd been startled by the raw concern in Fenris's as he looked down at her.

Hawke had seen Aveline and Isabela step off to the side, and she'd heard them squabble over Isabela finding a bottle of Antivan brandy in one of the man's pockets, with Aveline's main argument being that the brandy could _not _have been sanitary. Isabela's retort had been that rarely anything she put in her mouth could be considered sanitary, and Aveline's face had turned a disgusted shade of green; she'd glanced over at Hawke, probably to check on her, but hadn't moved.

"Slippery bastard," Hawke had cursed, fumbling for her dagger, which had fallen on the rough, dirty floor beside her. "That was a strong blast."

"You could have dodged it," Fenris had said matter-of-factly.

True. She could have. She was fast enough. But her grief over losing Bethany to the Gallows had clouded her mind, and she hadn't had enough motivation to scurry out of the way.

"I'll live," she said. "It's nothing a tall flagon of ale won't cure." She'd winced as the pain spread behind her eyes, making them feel swollen and achy. "Although I don't suppose a hangover is a good cure for a _headache, _per say."

"You are too reckless," he'd said, his eyes narrowing. "One of these days some foe you throw yourself in front of will end up killing you."

"A dramatic end always suited me," she'd said with a smirk.

He'd shaken his head, obviously frustrated and probably hoping she'd fall back unconscious so he wouldn't have to listen to her nonsense. Hawke had reached her hand for him then, tracing the line of lyrium down the center of his throat with her thumb, feeling the bump of his Adam's apple; she anticipated the surge of bluish light now, and it came, iridescent against the pale ivory of her hand.

"Well, thank you for caring, in your own strange way," she'd said.

His eyes had been nearly unreadable, but there was that same heat again, and the same clenching of his jaw.

"_Hawke," _he'd said, his voice catching just a little, just enough for her to hear. "You don't know what you're doing to me."

No, she thought, maybe not.

Or maybe now she knew _exactly _what her light touches did to him.


End file.
